


Lasagne, a la Mycroft

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Kidlock Oneshots [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aspie!Sherlock if you squint, Autistic Spectrum Disorder, Big Brother Mycroft, Brotherly Love, Cute, Family time, Fluff, Gen, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, Mycroft is a stellar big brother, Sweet, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock, Young Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, asd, cooking together, family values, sensory, teen!lock, too many resentments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:58:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Give Mummy a little more credit; she henpecks because she loves you, insufferable as it can be. I know you and Dad are awfully close, you always were - perhaps you should stop spending six hours up here, reading and pretending other people don’t exist, and more time trying to get to know him again.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lasagne, a la Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/gifts), [Mary_Jo_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_Jo_Holmes/gifts).



“Whatcha doing?” Mycroft lingered in the doorway of Sherlock’s room, leaning against the jamb, and peered in at his brother. 

Sherlock, all thirteen-year-old awkwardness and long limbs he wasn’t sure how to keep in check, was splayed out in his back on the bed, knees parted and ankles crossed, both arms held up high to hold the book above his face. “Trying to work out if it was the chef or Mister Ravensburger’s wife…” He said with disinterest, and Mycroft smirked at the slight waver in his deepening voice.

“Anything inclining you to think one way more than the other?” Mycroft asked. 

Sherlock sighed, “The wife is something of a slut, I’d assume she did it for the money.” He dropped the book onto the bed beside him and pushed himself to sit upright. “You’re home earlier than I expected you to be,” He said, glancing at his watch. “...Oh, it’s six.” 

Mycroft laughed in his throat and pushed himself away from the door, stepping fully into Sherlock’s bedroom. “And what time did you squirrel yourself away in here?” 

“Noon,” Sherlock made a face, frowning at him, then shrugged. “Is Dad downstairs?” 

Mycroft shook his head, “No - he and Mummy have gone to the Collins’, they’re driving together to that Gala event in Eastbourne. Did you forget?” 

Sherlock shook his head, “No,” He said, pushing himself down from the bed. “I just thought it was tomorrow.” 

“Anything I can help with?” Mycroft asked, “You wanted Dad…” 

Sherlock shook his head again. He dragged his sweatshirt off over his head and dropped it down onto his bed. “Did Mummy leave dinner?” 

Mycroft pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, “No, I told her I’d take you out. If you wanted, that is? It’s been a little while since you and I got time together recently. University keeps me so busy, I rather feared you thought I was neglecting to come home deliberately.” 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, “I know it’s a lot of work.” 

Mycroft nodded his head once, smiling a little. “Do you _want_ to go out and have dinner?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “I’d rather just stay here. Seeing as you’re home for the week, maybe we can go another day.” 

Mycroft frowned, jerking his head slightly to the right. “You used to love having dinner in town with me.” 

“We haven’t had dinner together since you were cutting up my chicken breasts.” Sherlock intoned, retrieving his book from his bed. He folded it closed and left it on his bedside locker. When he turned around, he noticed the hurt expression Mycroft’s face - try as Mycroft did to school it away quickly - and felt a pang of guilt. “Mummy bought the ingredients to make lasagne when she went shopping on Monday, we could make that?” 

“That’s what you want to do?” Mycroft asked, and he couldn’t help smiling when Sherlock nodded his head a little more vigorously. “Okay, let’s do that, then.” 

 

An hour later, every surface in the kitchen was covered in something the boys had used, or half used, or intended to use but had forgotten about. The kitchen was hot, the windows were steamed, and the overhead lights cast a bright shine around the entire space as the CD player in the corner played gentle classical music (Sherlock’s choice) that Mycroft found quite comforting. Mycroft stood at the stove, browning the mince off with the onions and mushrooms whilst Sherlock frowned his way through cutting up carrot, aubergine, courgette, and peppers into even chunks. 

“Who taught you to fill a lasagne with this kind of stuff?” Sherlock asked. When he’d laid the plan before Mycroft, he’d intended on the filling being limited to mushrooms and passata, but it had evolved beyond his imaginings on Mycroft’s say-so. 

Mycroft peered back at Sherlock over his shoulder, “A friend at University. She rather likes to cook, and I have to admit I was surprised at how delicious this particular recipe turned out to be.” 

“A girlfriend?” Sherlock asked, without looking up, and Mycroft turned back to his cooking pot. 

“No,” He said at length. 

“Well, I think this sounds shocking.” Sherlock supplied, shoving the end of the knife into a particularly large carrot. “Mummy tried to make lasagne a few weeks ago, did Dad tell you when he called?” 

Mycroft gave a preemptive chuckle, knowing the story was about to be one of disaster. “No, he did not. Was it terrible?” 

“She burned the pasta,” Sherlock said, looking up with a crinkle to his nose that, as he peered over his shoulder to glance at Sherlock, Mycroft couldn’t help laughing at. 

“How on _Earth_ did she manage that?” Mycroft shook his head. 

“Turned on the grill instead of the oven - the entire kitchen was full of smoke, Dad found the entire affair amusing and Mummy tried to insist it was supposed to be that way,” Sherlock said, putting down his knife. He gathered his ingredients up in large handfuls and filled the cooking bowl on the counter beside him with them, adding everything in and getting sensory satisfaction as he moved his hands around inside of the bowl, mixing up the chopped vegetables. 

“I dare say she wasn’t happy with Dad?” Mycroft asked, knocking off the hob top as he brought his sauteed mince away from the heat. 

“Dad slept in your bedroom,” Sherlock said, watching his hands inside of the bowl. 

Mycroft turned and watched Sherlock, completely absorbed in the obviously therapeutically tactile task. “You finished chopping?” Mycroft asked after a moment, and Sherlock drew his hands away quickly. Sherlock picked up the bowl and brought it to Mycroft, letting the older Holmes’ pour the vegetables into the pot containing the mince. “Now the passata,” Mycroft instructed, handing the bowl back to Sherlock. Sherlock returned with the jar of tomato sauce but insisted on tipping it in himself. Mycroft stirred the entire filling together and placed it on a low heat. “Just ten minutes or so, to sweat the vegetables down a little, then we’ll layer it up and put it in the oven.” 

Sherlock nodded his head, “Can I do the bechamel?” 

“Can we talk first?” Mycroft asked him, and Sherlock’s face switched from a soft look of enjoyment at the task to one of speculation. 

“About?” he asked, busying himself with gathering up the used dishes to avoid looking at his brother, as Mycroft lowered into a seat at the small kitchen table. 

“Mummy mentioned you had trouble with a boy at school last week,” Mycroft began carefully. “She said you both got a two-day suspension.” Sherlock dropped a handful of cutlery into the sink with a noisy clatter. “She said it was his fault, that the headmaster conceded to that, but that you were somewhat rude for your part.” 

“I was _not_ rude,” Sherlock turned. “He called me a freak, told me I was odd…” 

Mycroft nodded, “After which, you told him that his father wasn’t his father, and that clearly his mother was a whore.” He pushed his lips into a thin line. 

“I said she was promiscuous.” Sherlock corrected. 

“You can’t do that - it isn’t _acceptable_.” Mycroft said quietly, bordering on scolding but not quite there yet. “Other children are insufferable, I am aware, but Sherlock you _must_ try to get along with them. It’ll be vital for when you get older.” 

Sherlock frowned deeply, “So I’m to accept being called a freak, simply because he’s an idiot?” 

Mycroft couldn’t fault his reasoning, but he couldn’t condone it, either. He nodded his head, regretfully. “That’s the long and short of it, Sherlock, yes.” 

Sherlock turned back to the sink. “You used to be less...boring than this,” He tutted, turning on the hot tap to fill the sink. 

Mycroft would never tell Sherlock how much that simple sulky comment stung him. He sighed through his nose, “We all have to grow up at some point, Sherlock.” He got to his feet and turned to the stove, taking the lightly bubbling lasagne filling away from the heat. “Still want to make the bechamel?” 

Sherlock turned off the hot tap and turned around, shaking his head. “I’m not hungry.” He mumbled, and walked from the kitchen with a sour expression, letting the kitchen door swing shut behind him. 

Mycroft blew out a sigh, and reached for the dial on the cooker, turning the heat off completely. He surveyed the mess in the kitchen and considered the benefits of going after Sherlock now or cleaning up first. Rightly or wrongly, he decided to leave his brother alone. Rolling back his shirt sleeves, he tackled the kitchen; he washed dishes, reordered the chaos they’d caused, and tidied away the utensils and dishes they hadn’t used. When it took less time than he’d imagined, he set to work on the bechamel sauce for the lasagne, certain he could tempt Sherlock with a plateful later. As he stood, layering the contents into a baking tray with expert precision, he began to wonder if he shouldn’t have followed Sherlock when he left. 

He missed the time he used to spend with his brother, missed the closeness they’d had as children and the way that Sherlock and he had always found time for one another despite their schooling or whatever else was going on around them. He and Sherlock had been close, closer than most siblings, and their relationship felt strained right now. Mycroft knew it was partly down to the distance that now spanned between them; no longer living with somebody can have a huge effect on how you relate to one another. But he wished there was something he could do to relate to his brother again - their age gap had never been an issue before, but he feared that now that Sherlock was a teenager, he was no longer his ‘heroic big brother’ and more of an adult he felt he had nothing in common with. 

Mycroft pushed the lasagne into the preheated oven and set the timer for twenty-five minutes; he intended to return to sprinkle the top with cheese for the last five minutes or more of cooking, ensuring it was as filling and tasty as it could possibly be. He pushed the oven door closed and tossed the gloves down onto the table before he left the kitchen. 

“Sherlock?” He called lightly, poking his head around the lounge door. He found the room empty - the heavy curtains were drawn and the lights were on low, but the room was Sherlock-free. He slipped back out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him, and continued down the dimly lit hallway to the guest reception room. As children, he and Sherlock had often hidden in this lounge when their parents had guests in the dining room - it housed the piano and a shelf that was laden with books Sherlock had grown up reading. But, peering inside, Mycroft found the room empty and cold. 

He abandoned his search on the ground floor in favour of the first and went immediately to Sherlock’s room. He was only half surprised to find him in there, laid out on the bed on his stomach with his arms cushioned beneath his chin. Mycroft took a deep breath and stepped in through the open door, taking measured steps until he reached the foot of Sherlock’s bed. 

“You’re right to be angry at the boy - calling you things like that is not acceptable. But you’re not right to be angry at me, Sherlock. I’m trying to help.” He began carefully, “And I know that we don’t see very much of each other at the moment. Perhaps that will change once I complete University, I don’t know for sure what will happen. But it is important to me that you and I stay in touch, and stay as close as we always were. We cannot do that if you resent me as you do; we cannot do that if you decline to let me into that funny old head of yours.” 

Mycroft reached down and grabbed the sole of Sherlock’s left foot. Sherlock shrieked, despite himself, and drew his legs up as he turned around onto his back. “Don’t do that!” 

Mycroft laughed, smiling at him. “You always did have ticklish feet.” 

Sherlock drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them. “I don’t resent you.” He insisted, “But you’re surrounded by people like you at University. I’m on my own here, even with Mummy, even with Dad…” 

“And yet you’re so like both of them,” Mycroft commented, and Sherlock cast up his eyes. 

“Am I?” 

Mycroft nodded, “Uncannily so.” He invited himself to sit on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “Give Mummy a little more credit; she henpecks because she loves you, insufferable as it can be. I know you and Dad are awfully close, you always were - perhaps you should stop spending six hours up here, reading and pretending other people don’t exist, and more time trying to get to know him again.” 

Sherlock drew his mouth to the side and sucked his bottom lip. “You’re definitely staying the whole week? Not dashing back, not just a day or two before staying with friends? You’re staying _here_ ,” he checked, “All week?” 

Mycroft nodded his head, “The entire week, Sherlock.” 

“And we can do things - that gallery you told me about,...” 

Mycroft held out his hand, “Sherlock - I’m not disappearing. We have an entire week, and we can do whatever you like. But on one condition,” 

Sherlock frowned, “What?” 

“Come and eat dinner with me?” Mycroft asked, standing up. 

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled up as he smiled, pushing himself down from the bed. He nodded his head and suddenly Mycroft saw his little brother again - four, five, eight, ten years old, excited by his presence and keen to be with him, bright eyed and freckle-faced, outgoing, loud and _odd_ in every way Mycroft had always loved about him.


End file.
